A Friendship Worth Fighting For
by RavenOfFrost
Summary: When John accidentally calls Sherlock a freak after getting frustrated with him, there is a rift placed between the two friends, but it was not only the name-calling that kept them apart, the detective is keeping a secret, and it will either bring them together or push the friendship away. Sherlolly Rating due to some triggers.
1. Prologue

**No one belongs to me.**

**This story is the second version of my two-shot "A Shattering Mind" and takes place before my story "Family Ties". Hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

He didn't mean it.

He was getting so frustrated with the detective that words just came out, not thinking of what he said. The look on his best friend's face was enough to tell him that he said the wrong thing and he knew it. The one word that stabbed the detective's very heart like white-hot dagger. "Sherlock," he forced himself to say, but was very hushed about it.

"You too?" The detective asked in a cold voice. A voice that was so cold it was like his very heart was disappearing from his chest.

"No. I didn't mean-"

"You did." Sherlock's words was like frostbite. "You wouldn't have said it like that if you didn't." He was just staring at the doctor with unblinking, emotionless eyes.

John couldn't look at him at anymore, forcing his eyes to slowly drift away from the tall man standing before him. "I'm sorry that I said it." He looked back at the detective, hoping that he believed him. He really meant it!

"Am I truly a freak?" Sherlock asked, clearly trying to hide the pain. "Is that really it? Because last time I checked I'm a high-functioing sociopath not a freak. Or is it the same thing?" He pretended to quickly think about it. "Or would I rather be completely normal? No. God, no. Normal is boring." He began to look around in a pondering manner as if trying to cover of the pain with thoughts on the subject.

"Sherlock," John tried, but the detective didn't listen. "Sherlock," he practically shouted, now earning the attention of the detective. "I didn't mean to-"

"Why is it that people always call me that?" His friend bitterly smirked, but it quickly faded as he stared into the doctor's eyes. "Now you? How long have you thought of that? Oh, probably after the first six months." He began to do the math, muttering to himself.

"Sherlock," John tried again.

"Yes, about eight months, when you were dating Sarah you started to think that."

"You are a bit… Odd," he admitted hesitantly. "But we all know that!" He quickly added, knowing that it was true.

Sherlock locked his gaze with the doctor with pain behind his pale eyes that scared the doctor. "You were the only one who never called me that," he stated.

The pain in voice almost sounded like a puppy being abandoned and betrayed.

"Molly never called you that," he softly corrected. Then he shook his head, quickly waving his hands. "Sorry. That was bad. I take that-"

The detective's eyes were now just staring at him as if in cold horror.

John slowly lowered his hands and looked away from his best friend, taking a deep breath. What the hell was wrong with him? "Now I sound like a complete arse." He looked away the other direction, trying to think of something fast to say. Was it hot in here? "Sherlock, um… I know that sounded really bad, but-"

"So, now it's only Molly, I see." There was utter disappointment in his voice. He began to walk around, taking a deep breath. "So, my best friend completely admitted that he thought I was a freak after how many years? Five years?" He then looked at him with pain in his eyes that bore into the doctor's own eyes like a heavy gaze that he wanted to turn away from, but couldn't. "You are like everyone else!" He loudly said, throwing a hand in the air as pain turned to anger. "You, Donavan, Lestrade, and Anderson. A least Anderson changed. A little. Still lowers the I.Q. of the whole street, but he's changed. But you? You changed for the worse."

"Sherlock," John groaned with annoyance, feeling more and more horrible after every word.

"At least they didn't keep it hidden for five years!" The hurt detective shook his head, looking away, lifelessly waving his hand. "Fine. Just go."

"Sher-"

"Just go to your wife. Allow the _freak _that everyone comes for help to do his job." He walked over to the table, looking down at photos of the crime scene.

John heavily sighed, and obliged. Grabbing his coat, he walked out the door without another word being traded, mentally slugging himself over and over.


	2. Chapter 1

**Thanks for all the reviews and whatnot on the first chapter. It really helps! **

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock was trying to forget John and continue to think of the case. There was something missing in these photos that he was not seeing and every time he would try to think about it, he kept hearing his best friend repeat that sentence over and over in his head. _Can you stop being a freak and just tell me what exactly is missing?_ The doctor's frustrated words echoed in his head, making him shake his head and hiss, "Shut up." For an hour he has been fighting those words. For an hour he was trying to concentrate.

_Molly never called you that, _his friend had said.

"Shut up," he growled to himself, knowing that Molly won't turn her back on him. Right? She loved him, didn't she? She had for a few years now. Now, she had his heart and it was breaking like thin ice.

_Calm yourself, Sherlock, _the cunning voice of his enemy entered his head. _You know what you need._

"Not you, too," he hissed, not wanting Moriarty to join this little party of voices in his head as he staring at the photos, but not seeing them.

_You need them, Sherlock, _he sang.

Sherlock's veins began to itch as his brain was being flooded with taunting words. Growling with aggravation, the detective stormed to the kitchen, threw open a top cabinet, and pulled out a small box that was pushed way to the back, placed it on the counter, opened it, and calmed at the very sight of the syringe that was already filled with liquid. He removed it and studied the needle. No one knew that he kept it hidden for five months. What they don't know won't hurt them.

The detective drew his left forearm, stuck the needle in the veins, and pushed down the plunger, almost immediately silencing the voices. He tossed the empty syringe away in the trash and placed the now empty box back in its hiding spot, and headed back for the photo as the high began to kick in.

* * *

Night fell and the high was slowly wearing off as the voices began to return to his head. Sherlock was back studying the photo that was now pinned on the wall, and the voices were growing louder and louder. John's voice. The voice that kept repeating that damned word. To fight it, he took down the photo and returned it to the table and placed his hands on the table, trying to fight his returning friend's voice. His fingers began to curl in frustration and pain. He already took the one and last of the drugs and didn't need to take another. "Just go away," he hissed, but his voice was getting weak with pain.

The doctor's voice began to take its toll after the whole day and could hardly think, even with the drug in his system.

_Freak. Molly never called you that. At least there's someone else, _John's voice was taunting and mocking. His best friend turned against him.

His best friend thought like everyone else.

Then the front door began to unlock, then opened.

_You're a freak, Sherlock, _Moriarty's voice returned. _Everyone thinks you are. Even your-_

"Hello, love," the joyous little voice of Molly Hooper broke the thoughts. She closed the door and when he felt her arms around his thin waist, his brain went silent. "How was your day? Solve any cases?"

"Um, just working on one," he answered, trying to sound confident. "Anything interesting on your part?"

"Heart disease," the pathologist simply answered. She gave a quick peck on his cheek and headed for the kitchen. "What some tea?"

"Please." He stood up straight and looked at his girlfriend with wonder, afraid to ask the question, so he bit his tongue. He loved her, but he didn't even know if his heart was being lied to.

"When did John leave? Well, I guess since Mary is pregnant he can't stay away for two long." Her voice was distant from the kitchen.

"He left at four," he quickly answered, not wanting to talk about his traitor friend.

"So only two hours then?"

Annoyance entered his system. "Why does it matter?" He snapped.

Molly poked her head from the kitchen, looking at him with large brown eyes.

Sherlock waved his hand and lightly shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-" He stopped there.

God, he sounded like John.

His girlfriend walked out of the kitchen and crossed her arms with concern. "Did something happen?"

What was he going to say? His best friend called him a name and it hurt is feelings? God, no! He wasn't a child. "Nothing happened." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Just stressed." That was not really a lie.

She walked up to him with love in her eyes and kissed his lips. She looked up at him with love in her brown eyes. "I love you."

He smirked at her. "I love you, too, Molly Hooper." He kissed her forehead, lightly closed his eyes, and his heart felt like it was being lied to. His best friend called him a freak. Why wouldn't she? He opened his eyes at lurch of fear, then returned to the photo, but gave up. For five hours he was trying to crack it, but right now, his mind was being overwhelmed. He flopped on the couch and rested his elbow on the arm of the leather couch with his hand to his lips.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm fine. Just stressed," he told her again, fighting the urge at snapping at her. Well, if he doesn't tell her, she might call him a freak as well. He just kept that fear hidden as she went to check on the water.

His best friend was against him.

Caring was never an advantage and he should've listened.


	3. Chapter 2

The day after the disputed while his girlfriend was at work, Sherlock threw on his street clothes in search of his Homeless Network to stop the itch and the worry in his brain. He returned with five syringes and plenty of drugs to last a week in his jacket pockets and placed the drugs in his safe box, switched wardrobes and removed a syringe from his stash.

Then he got a text.

He went to his phone that was on the table in the living room and saw that it was from John, apologizing what he had said. "Not now," he muttered, placing the phone down, returning to the kitchen. He removed his belt, wrapping it around his arm and tighten it with his teeth.

_Molly would hate you for this, _a voice whispered. _John would hate you. He would never forgive you._

_"_I don't care," he growled through clenched teeth as the taste of leather filled his mouth. "I just want you to shut up." He drew his pale forearm and stuck the needle in his vein, releasing the substance, then removed the empty syringe. He removed the belt as his phone went off again. Sighing, he walked over to it as he disposed of the syringe in the garbage.

The text read:

_Sherlock, I really didn't mean it. You are not a freak. I-_

The high detective gently tossed the phone back on the table, too high and too hurt to deal with meaningless apologies from someone who thought of his friend like that for long years. The truth was let out and there was nothing to do right now.

Another text.

The detective growled as he picked up the phone again and read:

_Can I please come over so we can talk? You're my firmed. _

_Not now. Busy- SH_

"Busy getting high," the muttered to himself as he felt the rush start to come. He placed the phone down, staggering to the couch, and flopped onto it, chuckling to himself as feeling of his heart shattering in pieces. "Caring was never an advantage," he sang, repeating his brother's words.

* * *

Molly returned home when the high began to end and the detective was back to solving the case, not thinking of the doctor at all. He even felt emotionless when he kissed Molly, his heart disappearing to nothing, but a beating muscle.

After his girlfriend took a shower, he heard her happily chirp, "Love you," as she headed for the bedroom to get dressed.

Those words broke into his heart like a bullet, sending tears to his eyes.

_You're a freak, Sherlock, _Moriarty's voice sung. _A drug-addicted freak who's hearing voices. _

"Shut up," he growled to himself as tears began to burn his eyes.

_For how long? Two? Three years? How long did John stay shut up before he told you the truth? He admitted everything, Sherlock. He admitted how he truly saw you, freak._

"Shut up!"

"What?" Molly suddenly asked.

He whipped his head to face her as she walked in with large, confused eyes dressed in loose, rose-pink pajamas. "Nothing," he turned back to his work as tears were faded. He missed his best friend, but his heart was too weak to trust at the moment. He didn't even know if he was ever going to get over it.

His girlfriend approached and when he felt her arms around his shoulder, he wanted to push her away, saying that he ran out of being able to care, but of course, he didn't. Instead, he slowly tensed and she noticed.

"Are you alright, love?"

He took a deep breath and became cold in a instant as he raised his head, looking ahead of him. "I could tell you are in the mood, but," he stood up straight and looked at her pajamas as she was confused, "you don't mind if we do or don't do it. It works for you either way. You had a heartbreaking case of a child dying of a uncertain death and would want some way to lift your spirits, with ending a passionate night or not. And no, I am not in the mood, I have too much on my mind. Would I like tea? Uh, no. Not really. You could read in bed if you want to keep yourself busy. I don't know long I'll be and-" he got a text from the doctor- "and John didn't get the hint that I was busy, so I'll ignore that."

Molly just looked at him with shock as if he said something that was out of line.

Sherlock didn't know what to say as he took a deep breath and returned to the photos on the table. Caring was not an advantage and he knew that. He didn't care if he hurt anyone, he just wanted to put his heart and mind to rest. When his girlfriend didn't say anything, it made him feel like a complete ass, waiting for her to say something against him. "Just tell me that was mean," he murmured.

She didn't say anything.

Anger and pain grew in his veins. "Just tell say that you were against it," he demanded loudly. "Anything!" He was taking slow breaths, almost hoping that she was going to say something. Almost to make him feel… hated in a way.

"Sherlock," she whispered with concern, placing a hand on the back of his neck, getting close to him. "What is wrong and don't say 'nothing'."

He turned away from her. "I am a rude arsehole and you know it and yet you still love me. Why?"

It was time to get some answers.

"You're smart, loyal, caring-"

That damned word.

"What else?" He snapped.

"You know how to love." She stood between him and the table, to try to look him in the eyes, but he didn't look at her. "I always fancied you. You're so smart and intelligent and-"

"A freak," he darkly finished.

"Hardly." There was sympathy in her voice, catching his attention. "I never thought you were a freak. Not once. I heard what Donavan says about you. Ignore her. You're not a freak. You never were and you cease to amaze me." She kissed his cheek. "You always do." There was so much love and truth in her voice that it pained his heart.

_Remember what big brother says, _Moriarty started.

Sherlock shoved the thoughts from his head and looked at his girlfriend, whose eyes were beaming with love and trust.

_She's lying, Sherlock. You know she is. The drugs are the only thing real that you feel, Sherlock. Your heart is breaking._

He leaned forward and tenderly kissed her, the voice went silent, but the anxiety of the drugs started to prick at his brain. He tried to mentally control the urge, but it was too strong. He needed to feel the needle in his veins. He wanted to feel that high. He wanted to feel no care in the world, no love in his heart, no light in his mind. But right now, he wanted to feel Molly in his arms and silence his head. If he was going to trust someone once more, he was going to, but if his heart got betrayed, what a shame that would be.


	4. Chapter 3

John was worried that his friendship with Sherlock was wounded when he saw the text "Not now. Busy." He hardly got any responses from the detective and when he did, they were short. The doctor sighed as he just looked at the words on his phone. "I screwed up, didn't I?" He asked his pregnant wife who was sitting on the couch, watching telly, munching on celery and peanut butter.

"What did he say?"

"'Not now. Busy.'" He looked over at Mary, his supportive wife. "Should I go over there?"

"Maybe he is busy," she said as she was chewing on a celery stick.

John sighed, not knowing what to do. It was going on two days without talking to his friend and he hated it. He missed hearing the detective muttering to himself about solving the case as the he would pretend to listen. He missed getting the texts ordering him to come immediately and only because the detective was too lazy to get a pen himself. "No, he's not busy," he snapped, knowing his friend very well. "He is just staring at the photo trying to see what is missing." The crime scene of a murder was "odd" to the detective, and was trying to figure out what was missing and clearly the thing that was missing would lead to the killer.

"Then talk to Molly to see what's happening."

"I highly doubt she knows!" He cried, knowing that it was true.

Sherlock would probably make some excuse why the two weren't really talking to each other.

He remembered the expression on his best friend's face when he blurted those words and it was sickening to watch. He knew it didn't just effect their friendship, but it effected the detective's trust on others. John mentally slapped himself for saying that Molly was now the only person who never said that to him. By doing that, he lowered his friend's trust level. "Tomorrow I'll see him," he announced, convincing himself mostly.

Mary looked at him over her shoulder with a supporting gaze with a half smile. "Things will return the way they are, love. Don't you worry." She then returned to her program, then called, "Can you get more peanut butter? I ran out."

The husband blinked at her. "That was our last container," he meekly said. Even though he knew pregnant women's cravings, it still surprised him that his wife could just crave nonstop.

His wife turned him with a loving smile. "John, love, sweetie, could you go get some more peanut butter please?"

He was about to open his mouth, try to think of a substitute, but nothing entered his head. "Sure." He grabbed his keys off the counter by his hand. "How you doing on celery?"

His wife looked turned to look at the kitchen behind her, as there was only one stick left on her plate.

"Yeah, those too." He was about to head to the door. "I'll be back shortly."

"John."

He stopped at the door and looked at his wife, who was looking at him with gentle eyes.

"Sherlock will forgive you." There was fact in her voice. "You two went through too much to just throw it away due to some childish name-calling."

The doctor just slowly nodded his head, telling himself that he was going to have drop by his friend's flat tomorrow, then he walked out the door to get his wife celery and peanut butter.

* * *

It was around noon the next day when John drove to Baker Street with a heavy heart, hoping that he didn't cause permanent damage. Clearly this wasn't a big deal, right? They had worse arguments than this, but this was a little different. Instead of saying something of the slip of the tongue, it was something that deeply wounded the detective and he visibly saw the hurt on his friend. Stepping out of the car, he walked to the door and opened it. Pushing the worst fears from his head like Sherlock never forgiving him, he closed the door and went up the stairs to his friend's door and knocked on it.

There was silence on the other side.

"Sherlock," he called, trying not to sound like a child asking his brother for forgiveness. "Listen, mate, could we talk? Please?"

Silence.

He didn't even know if his friend was even home, so he checked the knob and sure enough, it was unlocked. He slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside. "Sherlock?" His eyes grew wide with horror as he found his friend laying on the floor on his side, dressed in his pajamas and robe. "Sherlock!" He slammed the door closed, scrambled to his friend's side, and gently rolled him on his back as he head lulled to the side as if dead. With hesitant fingers, he took his friend's pulse, but he found a faint one. Fear was lurched in his gut as he thought someone attempted on the young man's life, but when he saw the syringe by the detective's hand, anger boiled his blood. "I thought you quit, dammit," he growled. Without thinking, his grabbed his friend by the collar on his robe and roughly shook him. "Sherlock! Wake up!" He continued to shake him, fearing that the medics had to be called.

The detective's eyes fluttered open, but was extremely weak.

The doctor released his friend and tried to keep him awake as pain, anger, and fear was surging through him. "Why?" He questioned. "Why would you-"

"John?" Sherlock's voice was very weak and exhausted.

"Yes, it's me," he answered coldly. If his friend was well, he would punch dead in the face for being an idiot, but he knew that wouldn't help an addict.

"I…" His voice faded as he was about to fall back into unconsciousness.

"No," John growled, taking him by the collar again. "You will not overdose. Not now. Not ever." He knew that Sherlock was still able to fall sleep and never wake up in this condition.

"I'm tired," the detective hardly murmured.

"You need to stay awake, Sherlock. Do you hear me? You need to stay awake. You were lucky that I found you when I did." He lightly slapped his friend's cheek to keep him awake, not wanting to slip into deep sleep, then death. "Just stay awake, Sherlock." His voice became softer with worry, fearing that he was going witness his friend's death once more and the last time. He pulled out his cell phone from his jacket, but a dead hand fell on his phone, pinning in to the ground along with his hand.

"Don't," a more aware voice stated. "It is an experiment."

"An experiment?" John cried with disbelief. "An experiment to see how much cocaine can kill you?"

Sherlock smirked with a low chuckle. "You're right. It's not."

At least his mind was starting to come to.

Sort of.

"Does Molly know about this?" John asked, knowing for a fact that she didn't.

"Nope," the high detective answered with a smile, then weakly looked at him with stern eyes. "You better not tell her."

"Damn right I will. I'll also tell your brother." He was about to take his phone back, but his friend's hand clenched it tight.

"Don't you dare." His voice was cold and dark, making the doctor look at him. Even his pale grey eyes were dark and grim. "They don't need to know."

"Sher-"

"Go ahead," he waved his other hand. "Call me a freak like Donavan and everyone else. See if I care." He then chuckled with amusement. "God, I'm so high right now."

"And you're lucky you aren't dead!" John angrily hissed. When he wanted to apologize to his friend, he finds him half dead. Now who is the guilty one? Hopefully it was the druggie.

Sherlock looked at him with carelessness. "Please. I told you I could control the drugs better than ordinary people." He was about to sit up, then laid back down. "Nope. Can't. Not now." He closed his eyes in a weak manner.

John gave a curt nod of the head. "Yeah. Definitely going to call Mycroft and Molly." He jerked his hand and phone away from the detective and stood up, beginning to dial the girlfriend as the detective was trying to scramble to his feet.

"Hello?" The pathologist's voice came from the other side.

"Molly, it's John." He never wanted to say these words, especially to the girlfriend. Won't she be heartbroken. "Listen, I've got bad news about Sherlock-"

"Don't!" The detective tried to lunge at the doctor, who swiftly stepped aside from the high man.

"What is it?" Molly's concerned voice asked. "He's is alright?"

"Don't listen to him, Molly!" Sherlock shouted as he tried to pry the phone from the doctor's hands.

"Is that Sherlock?" The woman asked with confusion.

"He's high, Molly," John quickly explained, but the mad detective was trying to tear the phone away. "Sorry, mate," the doctor muttered, then came with a full blow to the jaw, causing his friend to stagger, holding his jaw. "Sherlock is on cocaine again," he returned to the phone conversation with a deep breath, watching his deranged friend whimper and hold his jaw. "I found him past out on the floor. No, he's fine… ish. Alive, but he may have a busted jaw…" He didn't feel bad about that last bit.

"Wait. Sherlock is on drugs?" There was heartache in her voice. "Really?"

Sherlock was now staring at him like a kicked puppy.

"Yeah," he admitted, and the truth burned him like a hot fireplace poker not taking his eyes of his troubled friend. "He barely had a pulse. I'm surprised he came to…"

"Tell him… Tell him I'm not coming home tonight." It sounded like she was trying not to cry.

"I will. I'll keep you posted, Molly."

She was silent and the line went dead.

John slowly lowered the phone, looked down. "She's not coming home tonight." He looked back at his friend. Sherlock got what he deserved no matter how much it hurt the detective. He was supposed to be clean! He lied to him and Molly. He lied to everyone!

"I told you not to tell her," his voice was emotionless.

"Sherlock. She has to know. _I _have to know. How long were you going this? How long did you keep this hidden?" His eyes were locked on his friend as anger and pain was raising in his blood, fearing the answer.

He gave a small shrug as he lowered his hand from his jaw. "Five months."

"Five months?" He cried with large eyes. "Five bloody months? Why, Sherlock? Just tell me-"

"I just need the drugs, okay?" He acted as if it was a no big deal.

"You need the drugs?" He took a deep breath, still staring into his friend's eyes, pointing roughly at the floor. "I could've found you dead, Sherlock. Do you really need the drugs if I nearly found you dead?"

"I can control the drugs better than anyone else." Then he looked at him with offense when he added, "Because I'm a freak." His eyes slowly looked away, still showing the pain from the argument.

Those words made the doctor's heart ache as he relaxed and took a deep breath. "I was here to apologize," he said in a low voice, taking his eyes off the high detective. "Now I nearly found my best friend dead." He looked back at with negative emotions twisting inside him.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Life." He then looked inquisitively at him. "Are you going to call my brother since you already called my girlfriend?"

Mycroft would send his little brother to rehab, but the detective would just walk out and not care, saying that he didn't need it. He did it before and there was no way that had changed at all. He raised his arms and dropped them to his sides. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he admitted. "I'm not going to let you die either." He then looked at the syringe that was laying on the floor. "Where are the drugs?"

"That's all I-"

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock." He glared at his friend with a warning, not in the mood to be lied to again.

The detective sighed as gave a dead point to the kitchen, not looking at him. "In the cabinet on the right in a box."

After disposing all of the drugs down the drain and in a nearby dumpster, couldn't even look at his friend, but knew that the detective needed his help. He called up the girlfriend, persuading her to come to the flat after work to keep an eye on the detective and that was all that she needed to do because he has a pregnant wife to return home to and couldn't babysit. He gave a bitter and caring farewell to his friend, then left, having no idea what to do at all.


	5. Chapter 4

"I can't believe you!" Molly shouted after she spend three minutes ignoring and avoiding her boyfriend, fuming with rage. "You lied for five years? Five years you have been destroying your brilliant mind?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say as he still dressed in his robe and pajamas at eight at night with his hair messy. Not caring what he looked like as the high was gone for the day. He couldn't even look at her. "I'm sorry," he muttered, feeling pathetic.

"Is that really all you could say?" She asked with disgust. "You are a idiot, Sherlock! You are officially a druggie. How does that feel? Instead of the world's greatest detective, you are a drug-addicted liar!" There were no tears in her eyes. Only pain and rage. "You have been injecting that crap into your veins for the past five months and frying your brain like no tomorrow." She paused, just staring at him with heavy eyes. "You are lucky John found you or I would've come home to you dead!" She kicked the wooden chair on its side.

Never has he seen her like this before and it almost scared him. Almost.

He took a deep breath. "Molly," his voice was calm and quiet. "You would not have found me dead. I would still be-"

"You hardly had pulse and if you slipped into unconsciousness your heart would've stopped due to the weakness. You know that!" She was still staring at him with unblinking eyes.

Her eyes were becoming so hard to look at as if they were looking into his soul.

"I would walk right out that door," she continued, pointing roughly at the closed door, "but I can't." Her arm fell as she her eyes were flooded with misery and heartache. "Because I have to watch you. I have to babysit you."

"Molly-"

"I love you, Sherlock, but right now, I can't even look at you." She began to relax. "I'm going to the guest room and apologize to Mrs. Hudson about our arguing." She then marched out the room, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock flopped on the couch as fear started to wash over his mind. He already lost John and now he may lose Molly. Oh, God. What then? His best friend hasn't contacted him since he found him eight hours ago. Did John even care anymore or did he give up? Not able to handle the "drug-addicted liar". Molly says she still loves him, but what if she leaves? The only woman who can silence his mind. The two people that he cared most in the world, gone just like that over his mistake that he can't easily get rid of. Then what? He'll be alone and his mind would spiral out of his own control.

Even right now at this very moment, he starting craving the high. A high that rushed through his brain like there was no care in the world and nothing would get done. No crimes, murders… nothing. John would be with his wife and Molly would've moved on and Mycroft would probably not care. Dear Mrs. Hudson would be sad and probably the one who would find him.

He roughly shook his head to get rid of the thought.

No.

He was not going to die. Not of a overdose. Even though it nearly happened a couple of times before, it never managed to stop his heart. Yet. He didn't want to die alone, though. He wanted his girlfriend and best friend in his life. He wants someone special in his life and heart when he draws his final breath. He closed his eyes, trying to fight the thoughts.

"Fearing of dying alone?" A mocking voice asked as the figure of Moriarty appeared from the detective's mind.

"Get out," he coldly growled, not wanting to deal with his enemy right now, even in mind palace form.

"Why should I? I'm in your mind." The criminal then rolled his head with annoyance. "If you want the drug, just go and get it. You know where to find it."

"I can't. I have to get clean. I can't lose-"

"Lose them?" Moriarty cried with amusement. "Sherlock, you don't need friends. You never needed friends." He began to whine almost like a child. "Isn't easier to die alone? Caring isn't an advantage."

Those words sent a chill down the detective's spine as he looked down at the floor with wide eyes, fearing that it was true.

What would his own brother think?

Moriarty slowly walked up to him, lean forward and whispered, "Think about it."

Sherlock opened his eyes to his empty flat as he was sitting on the couch. He slowly hung his head in dread as he whispered, "I don't want to die. Not yet." He shot up from the couch, hurried out the door to Mrs. Hudson's and knocked. When the landlady opened the door, there was disappointment in her eyes, but he noticed Molly sitting at the table behind her, not looking at him. "Molly," he began with fear in his heavy heart. "I need help."

His girlfriend stood up and looked at him with pain, walking over to him, then wrapped her arms around his neck and began to sob in his chest. He held her close, burying his face in her neck, afraid to lose her.

* * *

Mycroft came over the next day to have a private chat with his little brother about his drug habit as they were having tea. The British Government threatened to send him to rehab and refused to give on him only if he had to. "So what does John say all about this?" His older brother asked as he slightly wanted to change the subject.

Sherlock lightly shook his head as he went for he picked up his cup from the short table between them. "I haven't heard from him since he found me."

"I heard you two had a bit of a falling out. Don't tell me Holmes and Watson are done." There was false disappointment in his voice.

The detective looked at him, appalled by such words. "Hardly. He's still my friend."

His brother looked at him in a strange way. "He called you a freak, finds you nearly dead, and learns that you are on drugs after five months of lying. I'd say there's too many things going on at once, wouldn't you say?"

He didn't know where to look, fearing that his brother may know something that he didn't. "Are you going to tell me that caring is not an advantage or that things are going to get better as if you are optimistic." He picked up his cup of tea, about to drink it, knowing the second option was definitely not the answer.

Mycroft looked at him with an emotionless gaze. "I cannot say, Sherlock. I do know however, that if you do die, it would be a tragic loss to me."

Sherlock nearly chocked on his tea. "Tragic?" He chocked, setting his cup back on the table just in case of any incidents. "First you said you'd be upset, now tragic? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I saved your life when snipers were about to shoot you, didn't I?" His expression was unchanged.

"Yes, but _tragic_?" He looked at his brother as if he was the one who was on drugs. He remembered how desperate his brother sounded over the helicopters to order the troops to not kill the detective. If it wasn't for his brother, he would be a bullet-riddled corpse probably.

His brother look unamused. "I don't want to bury my little brother. Especially when he died of a drug overdose." He picked up his own cup and drew it to his lips. "Also it would break Mummy's and Daddy's hearts," he quickly added.

Sherlock was about to say something, but his brother stood up, taking his dark-blue umbrella that was leaning against the chair. "Also, Sherlock," he lightly thumbed the umbrella against his little brother's head, "that was for lying about the drugs. Don't do it again."

"Or what?" He asked, looking up at him with a smirk. "You're going to beat me with an umbrella?" He couldn't image his older brother pulverizing him with an umbrella as he doubted that the "gentleman" would want blood his beloved grey suit and umbrella.

Mycroft just looked at him as if he wanted to say something against it, but bit his tongue. Instead he said, "Talk to John, Sherlock. It'll only get worse if you don't."

He looked at him with wonder. "What do you mean by 'worse'?"

His brother he turned to leave. "Send Molly my regards." Then he walked out the door, closing it behind.


	6. Chapter 5

John was fuming with disappointment and anger towards his friend as he was sitting at home on the couch, just wishing he could strangle the detective. His mind was infected the dark thoughts against his friend. Sherlock has been lying about the drugs for five months. Five damned months and no one even knew it! How could he even do this to his friends and brother? Five damn months! The thought made his blood boil as he began to fidget his leg, fighting the urge to driving over the Baker Street, kicked the flat's door open, and slug his friend again and again and again.

"You have to talk to him," Mary suddenly stated softly as she walked behind the couch.

"How can I?" He cried with anger. "How can I talk to him? He lied for five months, Mary." He looked at her over his shoulder, waiting for an answer to a rhetorical question.

"I understand that, sweetie, but he needs her." She walked around the couch to face him, looking at him with understanding eyes.

John didn't look at her as he was chocking back the anger and pain. "He doesn't need me. He's fine on his own. Clearly." He has been on the drugs for five months after all!

She crossed her arms, looking at him with disbelief. "He is not fine and you know it. Sherlock is lucky to be alive!"

"He's been addicted for five months and right now, I can't even look at him. Just the thought of seeing him again, I want to punch him!" He roughly turned his head away as his leg continued to shake to get rid some of the negative nerves.

"Think of him and what he may need to get better."

"Molly told me that she isn't talking to him much and she is trying to keep him away from the stuff. So far, she found nothing." His voice was calmer as his nerves began to relax.

"Then talk to him," his wife pried.

"I can't!"

"And why not?"

"Because for five months I was watching my best friend slowly kill himself and I didn't even know it!" He whipped his head to her, glaring at her with dark and aching eyes. For five months, Sherlock was injecting that crap into his veins. For five months, he was getting high and his best friend didn't even know it. He was too angry to even see the detective, no matter what is the case.

Mary took a deep breath, sat beside him, and took his hand. "He needs you, John," her voice was gentle and understanding. "He needs you more than you think." She looked at him with wonder. "Do you think he got worse after your argument?"

He shook his head, hoping that wasn't the case. "I don't know," he admitted. He may have gotten worse after the toll of the drugs over the months.

"Talk to him, John."

"Not until I'm ready," he sighed, not looking at her. "Because if I see him right now, I would want to punch him dead in the face. I can't face him. Not now."

"Then when?"

"After I get updates from Molly to know things are getting better, then I'll go."

Mary leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, still holding his hand. "Mycroft saw him today, didn't he?"

"According to Molly? Yes."

His wife just gave a short nod of the head and whispered, "I love you."

John couldn't help, but smirk at that and kiss his believed wife's head. "I love you, too." He rested his head on her own, his thoughts of Sherlock slowly disappearing as his anger was fading.

* * *

An hour or so later, the doctor got a text from Sherlock while he and his wife were watching a movie in the living room.

_John. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I kept it all a secret. I haven't heard from you for three days now. I'm just making sure that if there is nothing against each other.- SH_

John heavily sighed and quickly replied:

_I don't want to talk now. Sorry. _

Then he got another text, making him sigh with annoyance.

_When do you want to talk?- SH_

Instead of replying, he just ignored it, placing the phone on the coffee table. He didn't know what to say to his friend. He knew that he needed help, but for five months. That's not easy to forget about. Not easy at all. He wiggled in his seat, trying to shake off his distress. Sensing his nervous emotions, his supporting wife wrapped her arms around his own and cuddled close to him, causing a small smile to form on his lips.

He knew he would eventually find the right words to say to his friend, but right now, it felt like there was a wall between them and all he could do was lean against it and wait for it to be knocked down. Sherlock was going to have to get clean and the doctor was going to have to find the right words, until then, there was Molly Hooper as the messenger.

* * *

Mycroft had left ten minutes before Sherlock read those six words and it felt like he was left in the darkness. He just sat on his chair, just reading the text over and over again.

What did he mean that he didn't want to talk?

He hasn't heard from his friend since he found the detective near dead. For three days they haven't spoken and he still doesn't want to talk? He sent another text, hoping to get a more precise answer.

Unfortunately, he didn't even get an answer.

Sherlock was tempted to call his friend, but already knew that his call would go unanswered. John obviously didn't want to talk, either not knowing when he wanted to or didn't want to answer. The detective sat his phone on the coffee table in front of him, placing his hands together and over his lips, concerned that John would ever want to talk to him again. Maybe he really meant it when he called him a freak and thought that this was a good chance to leave? Or he was too angry to talk? The second one sounded more like it, but certainly the doctor had to be at least concerned, right? He already found the detective nearly dead. That was alarming, wasn't it? Molly told him that she would only text the doctor at least once a day for an update. His girlfriend spoke to his best friend more than he did and she hardly spoke to him. Slowly they returned to their old ways.

"Sherlock," an annoyed voice entered his thoughts as Moriarty walked up to him. "He doesn't _care _about you anymore. Don't you get it?"

The detective didn't listen as his mind palace was trying to come up with ways to talk with his friend again.

"Do _not_ ignore me!" Moriarty shouted with rage.

Sherlock just closed his grey eyes, trying to shove the image if his enemy out, but he stayed.

"You did too much damage, Sherlock," he snarled. "You screwed up this time, detective." He then smiled with dark humor. "That, or maybe you really are a freak? A freak just trying to keep the way things were and won't accept reality of it." He then growled with anger and madness as he leaned to the concentrating detective. "He's _gone_, Sherlock, and you are out of friends."

His eyes opened at those words.

"Oh, don't worry," the criminal's words were taunting. "You still have your girlfriend. But," he faked a fearful gasp, "what if she leaves you? Not able to deal with you anymore? Sure, she's slowly forgiving you, but you never know. Then what are you going to do?" He stood up straight with his arms behind his back, head disappointingly shaking. "You will be all alone, Sherlock. No one to have your back. No one for you to lean on. No one to say 'I care'. Well, you do have your brother, but," he smirked, "we all know that story." His smiled faded to darkness. "Savor her love, Sherlock, because soon, no one will save you."

Sherlock returned to reality as his hands began to almost tremble in fear as his rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his curly hair. "Is our friendship over, John?" He asked himself with dread as he began to feel sick in his gut, tempting to actually ask his "friend" the question, but instead only asked the air or possibly the skull that was on the mantle. "Is it?" He chocked as he hunched over, holding his head as he was trying to calm his thoughts, wishing the Molly was home, but she wasn't and he needed to stop the worries.


	7. Chapter 6

On the fourth morning of being sober, Sherlock was laying in bed with Molly in his arms. The fear of her leaving was a weak point in his brilliant and fragile brain. He was scared of losing her, but needed the drugs. He needed them to calm his nerves and anxiety as well as to keep his mind off of losing his best friend, but knew that was the reason why he left. If he lost his girlfriend now, his heart would no longer exist and his mind would turn to stone. He gave up on the last case, having them sent off to Lestrade. He couldn't deal with cases right now as the only things he was worried about was his friendship with John, keeping his sanity and Molly.

_Just take the drugs, Sherlock_, Moriarty mocked in his head. _Life's too boring the way it already is. _

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his sleeping girlfriend's hair. He cuddled closer to her, holding her tighter, afraid of losing the one who was keeping him sane. He shoved the voice from his head, but was not able to shove the itch for the drugs. The itch was getting worse each passing day. He knew that he would lose Molly, but again, he kept the secret hidden for five months. What she didn't know won't hurt her. He's careful when it came to the drugs and was able to control it better than anyone else. He just accidentally did too much the last time.

Molly rolled over in his arms and snuggled close to his chest.

A small smile of love crawled upon his lips, but it faded away.

He was going to try one last time with the drugs and if he can't control it, then he would get help. While Molly is at work today, that would be his chance to get the drugs. Just one last time with the drugs to prove that he can control it and Molly didn't need to know. He was Sherlock Holmes. He knew what he was doing.

During the day while his girlfriend was at work, Sherlock returned home with a few more syringes and doses of cocaine. He tried to send a few texts to John, praying that they would be answered, but instead, they went ignored. Staring at the phone on the table in the kitchen, the detective sadly smirked at himself as his picked up a full syringe. "So," he muttered with a heavy heart and lost the will to gain back his friend, "I'll take the friendship isn't worth fighting for, is it, John Watson?" He drew the syringe to his arm, injecting the substance into his veins. His brain was washed with relief at the feeling of the rush as he removed the empty syringe.

He staggered to the couch and lifelessly flopped his side and closed his eyes as his beating heart was turning numb at the name of John as his memory was tempted to erase his friend from its data.

The detective's eyes opened, fearing what he just thought of doing.

He couldn't.

He could never erase the greatest and most loyal person he has ever known from his mind. He'll die taking the memories of the ex-soldiers with him.

The high young man curled into a ball, and softly wept as confusion, pain, self-loathing, and anger was swirling in his high brain. He had no idea what feelings were real if any of them were fake. He just laid there, thinking in a dead mind, until the high had ended.

* * *

When Molly returned home at six in the afternoon, Sherlock felt low after the sudden high for four days, but refused to show his sudden change of mood to his girlfriend as he was playing the violin. Everything was going so well as she would sit nearby him, sipping on tea as she would swoon to his composing. He was only paying attention to the music, then he suddenly heard Molly angrily yell out, "Sherlock Holmes! What is this?"

He stopped in the middle of the verse, frozen with dread as his heart was beating in his ears and mind began to panic. He didn't hide it well enough. He was too high to put it away properly and completely forgot about it. The box was left sitting in the microwave, leaving it there temporary until the high was over. "Um…" He tried to think quickly, but no lie would be able to cover this one up.

"Sherlock!" She demanded, on the brink of tears.

The violinist slowly lowered his instrument and placed it on the table beside him. He hesitantly turned to face her, fearing the worst. "Molly," he softly began, seeing that she was holding the opened the box, staring at him with betrayed eyes. "I am-"

"Don't apologize to me, Sherlock," she ordered through clenched teeth. "When did this happen? Four days ago?" She practically screamed.

"Today," he quietly admitted. He bowed his head in shame. "I'm sorry."

"That doesn't cut it, Sherlock! You are an idiot! You lying bastard!" She roughly tossed the box on the kitchen counter as she roughly shook her head. "I'm done, Sherlock. I tried to stay with you to keep an eye on you. I tried, but no! You can't even last four days!" She stormed to the bedroom and slammed the door closed.

His heart stopped dead in its tracks as his face grew pale, knowing his greatest fear was coming true: His girlfriend was leaving.

A moment later, she was dressed in jeans and a shirt with a small suitcase already packed.

"Molly," he tried as he watched her march to the front door. "No!" He rushed to stop her, standing in her way, but she slapped him on his healing jaw where John had punched him- luckily didn't cause a bruise. The slap cracked through the flat, as she bored hot daggers into his eyes that scorched their way to the core. He slowly backed off, just staring at her, silently begging her not to go, but knew that her mind was made up.

She just glared hatred at him as she tore the door open.

He could tell that she wanted to say "I love you", but she only shook her head, sadly walking out the door and closed it behind her.

Sherlock just stood there, holding his already sore jaw that was now stinging with pain. The stinging turned numb as his mind was slowly beginning to panic.

Molly was gone, John was gone, and he was all alone. He knew the drugs would help, but only for a little bit. He needed to fix this before it was too late. He headed to his phone that was on the table, and began to text John.

_John. Molly is gone. I have no one. Please help me. I can't do this. I need help. Please. -SH _

Message sent.

He already knew John wouldn't answer him as he placed the phone back on the table and stepped to the window to see if he could catch Molly, but she wasn't there. She was probably already on her way to a hotel or Mrs. Hudson caught her instead. After ten minutes past, sure enough, there was no response from his old friend. With a heavy heart, he headed to the box that Molly tossed on the counter and all five of the syringes were in tact.

With a shaky hand, he picked up one of the syringe's and studied the clear liquid. Sherlock rolled up his robe's sleeve and took a deep breath. _Just get high. Just get the rush until you think things through. Just one syringe, until you figure out what to do… Freak. _Then he stuck the needle into a vein, pushing the plunger down to numb the pain. He disposed of the empty syringe and took a shaky breath as images of Molly and John flashed before his eyes.

_Oh, Sherlock,_ Moriarty's voice began, dripping with false sympathy. _Look at you. You're in no shape to fight._

Sherlock made his way to the bedroom and laid on his bed as his heart began to break. He tried to push the voice from his head, but it wouldn't budge.

_Sherlock. You really don't get it, do you?_

The detective closed his eyes, trying to focus on other images and voices.

"They are gone and they will never come back. You will not end this, Sherlock," Moriarty was now standing at the doorway, just watching him. "Well, you could end this, but you know how it's going to end." He looked away with his eyes as if it was an obvious answer. "You killing yourself. Just like the Fall. Only this time permanent."

Sherlock's chose to ignore him as he just rolled on his side, trying to think of Molly Hooper.

"She's not coming, Sherlock. She left you." His voice was dark and taunting. "She slapped you and John punched you, remember?"

"Go away," he ordered, but his voice was more shaky than he thought.

"You have plenty of cocaine to stop your heart."

He covered his ears, trying to fight the voice from his own world.

What was happening?

For the first time, he wanted to leave his mind.

"Poor Sherlock. A drug-addicted freak. That's how you'll die." He then shrugged with a expression that looked as if he didn't mind the title. "Better than dying as a fraud. Only this time the headliners would be 'Great Detective Overdose'." He grinned excitedly. "I wonder how it would be ruled by," he placed his hand to his chin in a pondering manner. "Depends if there's a note or not."

Sherlock began to listen to his words and the consulting criminal saw this.

"No one cares about you, Sherlock," his voice was stating fact. "Just do it, Sherlock. Just get it over with."

"I don't want to die," he admitted in a cracking voice. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Literally.

"No one wants to die, Sherlock. However, you do. I can feel it in your mind."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he slowly took Molly's pillow and brought to his face, softly breathing in her scent. "I could get better," he commented, opening his eyes, seeing a small ray of hope. "I could-"

Moriarty shook his head in annoyance. "But you won't get better," he whined. "That's so boring. You'll just keep falling off and crave the drugs. This isn't the first time that this happened. Now just take the drugs and write a note if you want." He was starting to get impatient.

Sherlock just savored Molly's scent as he closed his eyes, knowing her heart no longer belonged to him, but she still loved him. His breaking and numbing heart still belonged to her and John was still his best friend.


	8. Chapter 7

All day John had spend his time looking for his cell phone. Knowing that it was on silent from going to a movie theater last night, he didn't bother calling it. He remembered that he had it in his hand when he got back from the theater with a couple of the guys, but after that, he couldn't remember where he put it. He wanted to go see his friend today, but he couldn't go without his phone just in case Mary needed to contact him. The doctor gave up for couple of hours, just relaxing at home, hoping that no one was trying to contact him. Mary was out and about with some of her friends as he would continue to search once in a while, hoping that his phone would show up.

It was a six at night and his phone was still no where to be found and he was starting to lost his mind. "Where is that bloody phone?" He called as he skimmed the living room as Mary was a sitting on the couch, not knowing where else to look.

"Still haven't found it, love?"

"No, I still haven't found it!" He answered with annoyance. "All day I was looking for it!" He headed back to the bedroom for the third time, continuing to tear it apart just for a damn phone.

"John!" His wife called, making him come back, only to find her smiling as she held the cell phone in her hand, holding it out to him. "I found it under the couch when I dropped the remote."

He sighed with a relieved smile as he took it. "Right. I took took my coat off and it must've fell out. Thanks, love." He kissed her head, glad to have another person around and checked his phone to see if anyone tried to contact him as he turned up the volume. His smile quickly faded as he saw the three missed messages from Sherlock and one from Molly. He checked the last message from Sherlock and his stomach turned with terror. "What time is it?" He softly asked his wife.

"6:25. Why?"

He didn't answer her, too busy rereading the desperate and lonely messaged from his friend.

"John?" His wife asked with concern at the sight of his face.

He didn't hear her as he read Molly's message about her leaving to a friend's and about her boyfriend's relapse, then hurried to his coat and keys. He was 25 minutes late.

"John?" She called again.

"Sherlock relapsed," he quickly answered with a swallow as he threw on his coat. "Something bad is happening. I'll keep you posted." He hurried out the door before anymore words could be traded. He never jumped in the car so fast before in his life, threw on the seatbelt, started the car, and sped out of the neighborhood. He began to mentally scold himself for being too mad at Sherlock to even talk to him and forgetting to turn his phone's volume up when there was trouble with his friend. Sherlock was on drugs and needed help. Molly was too upset to talk to him now and was staying at a friend's for the night. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

It felt like time came to a standstill during the trip through London. He was already late as it is. He was trying to remain calm, but his nerves were getting the best of him as he muttering to himself, cursing the damned traffic. His best friend was in danger, and he didn't even know of it till the last minute. What kind of friend was he? He should've been there! Instead, he was too busy about his best friend lying to him about doing drugs and too busy searching for his phone! Sherlock needed him more than ever and he wasn't even willing to talk!

Upon arrival at Baker Street, John burst through the door, slamming it shut, and ran up the stairs. Sherlock's door was locked, making him pound on the door. "Sherlock!" He shouted, his heart racing in his chest.

No answer.

"Please be alive. Please be alive," he desperately muttered to himself as he fumbled for the keys, unlocked the door, and barged in to an empty living room. "Sherlock!"

"John?" A dry voice meekly called from the kitchen.

The doctor closed the door, made his way to the kitchen, and found his best friend sitting at the table with his head raised from the table, looking at him with red eyes as if he was crying. He watched the aching detective sit up, pain just shimmering in his eyes. "What the hell happened to you?" His quietly asked, not blinking as he just stared at his friend, who looked like he went through hell. Then he noticed how blown his pupils were, making his gut churn. He was about to step forward, but Sherlock waved his hand.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up… Again." There was bitterness in his tone. He lightly shook his head as he stared at a scientific glass that only had a small amount of clear liquid. "I'm sorry. For everything. For lying to you and relapsing." He then sadly smirked. "I know you may be wanting to punch me again and Molly already slapped me, so please don't." He turned to him with agony-filled eyes. "I won't be able to handle it." He turned away in shame. "I know I relapsed, but at least you came." He turned back to him. "Right?"

John heavily sighed as he approached his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, looking deep into his blown eyes. "I'm not going to hit you, mate. I came here as soon… As I read the text after losing my phone." He slowly nodded at the strange truth, trying not to smile at the dark irony.

Sherlock lightly shook his head as if he was tying to believe his words, then looked at him like he was wondering if he heard correctly. "You misplaced your phone?"

"Yeah." He gave a curt nod, feeling like an idiot. "And it was on silent. All day."

The detective wanted to say something, but changed his thoughts, then looked at him with a knowing gaze. "You went out to the theater last night, forgot to turn your volume up afterwards, you get home at night… It was under your couch, wasn't it?"

"Mary found it when she dropped the remote," he embarrassedly admitted. What would he do without that woman?

The detective looked away, as John was trying not to smile. "So you mean, you weren't ignoring my texts?" He looked back at him with a smile of humor.

"No. I was actually thinking of coming over today, but I couldn't find my damned phone." He then laughed, "I was tearing the whole house down just looking for it."

"But you didn't check under the couch," he stated as he was finding the humor in it.

"That was the only spot I didn't think of looking!" He cried with annoyance. "Mary was gone all day and I stuck at the house looking for my phone. She comes home an hour before finding it." He threw his arms in the air. "How do women do that?"

"Molly does the same. They just know," the detective agreed with a humorous smile.

"They do! It's weird!"

The two of them laughed, then slowly quieted down.

John took a small breath to regain his composure, then loosely gestured to the cup sitting in front of the detective. "What is that?"

"Cyanide," the chemist answered as he gently picked up the cup with hardly any liquid in it and studied it. "200 milligrams. Enough to kill within minutes." He then grinned at the doctor. "Fascinating, isn't?"

"Yeah," he answered slowly, clearly his throat. "Fascinating that you were going to drink that." He lightly shook his head as chemist chuckled, setting it down. John looked at his friend with disappointment. "I'm sorry I didn't talk to you."

Sherlock shrugged it off. "That doesn't matter." He looked at him with clearer eyes. "You're here. That's saying something, doesn't it? Of course, after you found your phone." He gave a short chuckle of amusement.

John rubbed the back of his neck with an half embarrassed smile.

The detective looked back at the poison with heartache. "I was starting to think if this friendship was even worth fighting for. If you weren't fighting for it, why would I?"

His voice was melancholy and heartfelt that it made John feel guilty. "Is this what's this is about?" He asked, looking at his friend was guilty wonder.

"You were gone. Molly still is gone. It felt liked I failed you all. That I was nothing, but a complete disappointment."

"So you made poison."

Sherlock gave half a shrug. "Past time to see if I actually wanted to do this or not. I could've just overdosed, but I chose not to. Obviously."

John noticed the box that was sitting on the counter across the way, having a sickening feeling, then looked back at him. "You were high when you made poison?"

"I can still operate when I want to," the detective muttered as if annoyed with the question.

The doctor looked back at him, trying not to laugh. "You are a bloody freak."

Sherlock smiled as shrugged. "I supposed it is odd to made cyanide while on cocaine."

John crossed his arms and slightly tilted his head to the side with a small smirk. "When I found you the other day, that's what people normally do when they had enough. Now here you are, pupils completely blown and making exactly 200 milligrams of cyanide." He chuckled, lightly shook his head with a smile at his unpredictable friend. Sherlock was definitely someone you both hated and loved at the same time and didn't know if you wanted to strange him for relapsing or should be proud that he created poison while being high. The doctor sighed as he sadly shook his head, not looking at him with guilt gnawing at his mind. "I'm sorry, mate. For what I said and… Not being there."

Sherlock waved him off. "You had a right to." He sadly smirked. "And now I'm addicted again. For the worst." He slightly bowed his head. "I didn't want to die. Still don't."

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, Sherlock. Why don't we get rid of all this stuff and try to get Molly up here and we'll help- _I'll _help you. Sound good?" He looked his friend in the eyes with a hopeful smile.

The detective smiled as he stood up. "Sounds good."

The two friends disposed of the drugs and poison as John phoned his wife to tell her that Sherlock safe. He then called up Molly, telling her to return to the flat and she obliged. Mrs. Hudson came by with mixed emotions, but was relieved to see Sherlock better, gratefully hugging him. The two kept the poison a secret from the landlady, not wanting to frighten her and waited for Molly Hooper to return as tea was being made by the kind, older woman. After she left to her own flat, John and Sherlock sat in each their own chairs, talking on higher notes.


	9. Chapter 8

After calling his wife to tell her that all is well- at least better than they were- John was just sitting back on the couch as Molly and Sherlock were just staring at each other, waiting for the other speak their minds. The doctor just watched the two of them as the flat was silent as if the couple were trying to open their mouths, but too many thoughts were going at once.

Sherlock was about to open his mouth, but closed it, taking a deep breath as if trying to clear his mind.

The energy was like a nail and only words of a hammer was going to break it.

"You idiot," Molly sourly stated.

_That's one way to start it, _John thought to himself, then looked at Sherlock, whose turn it was to speak.

"Molly," Sherlock tried, but was cut off.

"I would slap you again, but I already did that." She just stared at him as John looked at her, going off at each person like a game of table tennis.

The detective's eyes slowly looked away. "You did slap me three times in a row at one point," he softly reminded.

"Cyanide?" She quietly cried out with shock. "Only you would make cyanide to kill yourself!"

"Ugh, overdosing," he grumbled with annoyance and boredom. "Overdosing is boring." He grinned at her with false enthusiasm and flamboyance. "I decided to be creative."

Molly just blinked, unamused at his choice of words as John looked at her, then noticed Sherlock was going to say something, turning back to him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've got to give me some credit of being clever."

John looked back at Molly.

She crossed her arms with a fake smile. "Oh, yeah. You're clever… For making poison to off yourself!" She shouted the ending words as her arms fell to her sides. "You are an idiot!"

John continued to watch the couple, inthralled at the conversation as he looked at his friend.

Sherlock took a heavy sigh and there was pure honesty in his eyes as he locked gazes with his girlfriend.

This one was going to be good.

"I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry that I started again. I really am." He just looked her in the eyes that made John roll his own eyes that expression that his friend was giving the girlfriend. A complete and utter pathetic look that would reel in any girlfriend to forgiveness.

And, of course, it worked.

Molly sighed, relaxing as she looked down, then back to him. "Get help, Sherlock." Her voice was quiet and gentle. "Otherwise, I will walk away. I can't just stand back and do nothing."

The detective smirked. "I promise and I love you, too." He hugged Molly lovingly as she wrapped her arms around his thin waist. "And I hope you enjoyed this conversation, John, because clearly you had nothing better to do," he announced.

"I just wanted to make sure there was going to be no yelling," he simply stated. Half of it was true and the other half was just wanting to make sure that his friend was going to be alright. That, and it was entertaining, but, indeed, the last thing he wanted was Sherlock and Molly not talking to each other. The doctor heaved himself to his feet, looking at his friend. "Are you going to tell My-"

"No," the detective quickly answered, looking straight ahead over Molly. "Mycroft does not need to know."

The pathologist looked up at him. "He has the right to know."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "I'll tell him in a week."

"And that is as urgent as it gets," John muttered half to himself. He took a deep breath, still feeling guilty. "Sherlock. I am, again, truly-"

"It's fine."

"But I just want to-"

"Forget it."

"Are you sure? After all I-"

"Shut up."

John was about to say something, but instead gave a curt nod. "Right. Okay. I'm going to go home now."

"Good-night, John," the detective said as he was still hugging his girlfriend, who had a smile on her face of embarrassment and humor as she was resting her head on his chest.

Molly giggled. "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

"No, I am not going to let you go again." He slowly rolled his head to the doctor. "You can go now." He just stared at him, trying to give him a hint.

John nodded. "Right. I'm going." Then headed for the door.

"Night, John," Molly called after him. "Thank you."

He stopped at the door and smiled at the petite woman, who was smiling graciously at him. "Anytime," he sincerely answered, giving the couple both glances as they knew he meant it.

"_Go_, John," Sherlock ordered with growing annoyance.

John opened the door with annoyance himself. "Jesus. Alright. I'll see you two tomorrow." Then walked out, closing the door behind him with a smile of humor and relief.


	10. Epilogue

As days slowly went by, Mycroft would watch his little brother like a disapproved hawk, getting updates from Molly and John and would drop by random visits to check on his baby brother. Sherlock would have to do random drug tests as Molly and John would still scold him about lying every time he would. They made it very clear to the detective that if he screwed up, he would be sent to rehab by his _dear_ brother and would have no one to back him up. Making sure that the detective would not try to do anything, that's when Mycroft came in. He would keep tabs to make sure that his little brother didn't do anything stupid and if he did, a black car would come and take the detective straight to rehab.

Sherlock knew that and would pout about it.

John was still not happy for his friend for lying and relapsing, of course, and would bring it up every chance he got to make the detective known to it, but would keep it to a minimum, not wanting to go overboard with the reminders. When he would come to the flat, anger would still rise in his blood every time he saw the detective, fighting the urge beat his friend to a bloody pulp. Molly, feeling the same, would make tea, and would secretly talk to the doctor in the kitchen to get the anger out of each other, talking about what they wanted to do and the other completely understood. Molly still had not completely forgave the detective, but was still by his side and his support as she was on edge and her boyfriend knew that. The two friends agreed to not show anger- including the urges to kill- to their recovering friend.

Sherlock would continue to crave, trying not crack, and it scared Molly. She would try anything to keep his mind off the urge to use again and he would fight it, also not wanting to fall off the track to recovery.

The doctor made it clear to the recovering addict that he would not turn his back on him and leave him alone. He was going to help his friend along the way and would not leave. The last thing he wanted to make his friend fear that he was going to turn his back on him if something did happen. Instead, the doctor made it very clear that he was going beat him to a bloody pulp and then get Mycroft to pick up the wounded druggie.

This gave the detective smirked with no doubt that would happen and continued to fight the urge.

Days grew into weeks when Sherlock's mind was starting not to care if he got the drugs or not. Just when he was bored, Molly could see the way his eyes would shift, knowing what he would think about, and would try her best to pull him out of it. He reassured her as he held her close as they were sitting on the couch that he would not. He thought he lost her once and was also scared that he would lose his best friend, even though he knew how loyal John was, he still didn't want to risk it. Not again. That, and he did not want to get sent to rehab because his _dear_ brother would make him. He kept the fear going, kept reminding himself who he may lose and where would go. The fear helped him through it along with the loyal support of his girlfriend and best friend. Each day the fear of rehab would grow farther and farther and would notice the smug smile on his brother's face when he would come for a chat.

"You are a child, Sherlock," he stated with the smile on his face as he brought the cup of tea to his lips. "Always having to be watched over."

The detective rolled his eyes. "They are my support and I am not a child."

"Of course not, my dear, little brother," the eldest sarcastically agreed. "Of course not."

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